by J. S. Morin
Rachel and Jaxon exchanged a look. “Be nice to see Toshiro again,” Rachel admitted.
“Plus,” Carl continued, sensing a weakening of resistance. “We’ve got our headquarters on a planet that’s off the standard charts, about half of the wreck of the Odysseus up and running as a planetside installation, and… best of all… free child care. Lisa and Jaxon Jr. would have kids around their ages to play with.”
Rachel set aside her beer and looked Amy square in the eye. “What’s the catch?”
“Carl, mostly,” Amy said with a shrug.
Clearing his throat, Carl clarified. “Down in the cargo bay are three former Earth Navy petty officers. We blew our last job because they still think like naval personnel. Back in Ithaca, I’ve got a hundred more like ‘em. So just about everyone you’re going to work with planetside is green. Up here, that’s the problem I’m working on right now. Our base of operations is in the middle of nowhere. Nice for security; bad for logistics. Our little moon is a vicious jungle filled with poisonous and carnivorous wildlife—upside, a lot of it tastes pretty good cooked. The marines who were aboard the Odysseus to guard the experimental star-drive are living in that jungle, worshiping some alien thing they’re convinced is a god. Not on friendly terms with them. Since we retook the Odysseus they’ve been on the run. My wizard friend is leading an expedition to round them up.”
“The same one who came to see you after…?” Jaxon left the rest hanging. They all knew what had transpired in the aftermath of the Battle of Karthix.
Rachel wagged a finger. “Yeah, what was his name? Mortimer?”
“Mordecai,” Amy corrected. “Mort for short.”
“There’s probably a few catches I’m missing, but that’s most of it. I’ve got enough food to feed everyone. The Odysseus has fuel reserves that’ll power the basics for years since we don’t need propulsion. The navy personnel are top quality and know their shit—it’s my shit I’m struggling to teach them. I just need to get operations up and running offworld so we can grow the syndicate. I’ll start losing people to legitimate lines of work if I don’t show them I can bring home the creature comforts of a scoundrel’s life.”
Carl watched a silent conversation consisting entirely of facial expressions, pass between Rachel and Jaxon. He used to talk to Tanny that way. The language was unique to each couple. Despite a few impressions that hinted at misgivings, he couldn’t be sure where he stood with them.
Over at the holo-projector, Lisa had just won a race against her brother and let out a whoop. That gave Carl an idea. He raised his voice, addressing the kids while watching the parents with a gleam in his eye. “Plus, we have some great new games that no one outside the syndicate has seen yet.”
# # #
Yomin, Reebo, and Niang crowded around the comm panel in the cargo bay. Ramsey wanted to meet with his old friends in private. Yomin got that. But they weren’t up there discussing families, kids’ exploits, and common acquaintances. Ramsey was trying to recruit them. That affected everyone.
With systems as old as those on the Mobius, there were unique challenges to hacking them. It wasn’t a matter of bypassing security measures and overcoming encryption, alarms, and protocols. Sometimes the trouble was merely getting a connection between two systems that didn’t communicate under normal circumstances. Even though there were comm panels throughout the ship, all the signals passed through the cockpits—no two had a direct line to one another. Plus, there was no provision for turning on a mic remotely. Yomin had to use the passive line noise on the mic circuit to interpret the voices in the common room and run it through a datapad to scrub the junk from the signal and render it intelligible.
“Got it,” she whispered to herself as Reebo and Niang hovered over her shoulder.
Carl’s voice came from the datapad, tinny and warbled. Computer-game sounds droned in the background. “The navy personnel are top quality and know their shit—it’s my shit I’m struggling to teach them. I just need to get operations up and running offworld so we can grow the syndicate. I’ll start losing people to legitimate lines of work if I don’t show them I can bring home the creature comforts of a scoundrel’s life… Plus, we have some great new games that no one outside the syndicate has seen yet.”
“Games?” Niang whispered. “He’s trying to hire them by offering up Roddy’s fighting game?”
“Figures,” Reebo grumbled. “Ramsey doesn’t take a funeral seriously. We came out here with no plan. That’s why that so-called job of his went pants-around-ankles. No contingencies. No backup. No goddamn plan at all.”
“Shh,” Yomin hissed.
“Dunno, Blackjack. Not sure I want to go back to being in the navy.”
“This is people you know, without the naval bullshit.”
“On a moon with an alien entity impersonating a god and half a marine security detail worshiping it. You’re glossing over that part a bit, aren’t you?”
“Mort’ll handle that. Ever since we retook the Odysseus, they haven’t been a problem.”
Reebo shivered dramatically. “That wizard friend of Ramsey’s still gives me the willies. I almost didn’t sign on because of that guy.”
Yomin nodded absently. “I met Don Rucker once. My dad was nominated for All-Mars Innovator of the Year back in 2545, and the whole family went to the awards banquet. My dad didn’t win, but Don Rucker made the rounds of the tables introducing himself to all the nominees. I’ll never forget that face. This Mort guy’s got the same look. Hard eyes and a shark’s smile. He’s probably killed more humans than the Odysseus killed Eyndars at Karthix.”
They had talked over the conversation going on in the common room. When they all shut up, Yomin and her co-eavesdroppers resumed listening.
“…on a trial basis. Nothing else, I wouldn’t mind seeing Toshiro again.”
“Fine, honey. We’re in. But Blackjack, can you maybe reconsider bringing Hatchet in on this business? I mean, he’s one of us and I’ll never forget that, but he’s scraped off that veneer of civility you painted onto him. He’s dangerous.”
“He’s good. And don’t tell me he’s dangerous. I recruited him out of a court martial. But I worked with him on the Silde Slims job, and he’s doing fine. You two go get settled in the passenger quarters, and Amy can get us on our way to the rendezvous with Samurai.”
There was some chitchat as the meeting broke up, and the sounds of the game vanished from the background.
“Goes to show where we fit in around here,” Reebo said. “We’re out once Ramsey rounds up his old squadron buddies.”
“Sounds like it,” Niang said with a sigh.
Yomin was reaching to disconnect her equipment from the comm panel when a voice came through, clearer than before. “Listening in by the door would have been stupid. Tapping the comm is the way to go. Might be some criminal in you three yet. Ramsey out.” The comm went dead. Even the background static was silent.
# # #
Miyamoto Toshiro hadn’t aged since leaving the navy. He’d looked old even when he was a young man. That face of his held the emotive range of a marble bust, set into a slight furrowed scowl. The shuttle that delivered him had already pulled away when the airlock opened to deposit him in the cargo bay of the Mobius. Samurai was dressed in a civilian flight suit, impeccably clean and perfectly fitted. His face was clean shaven; his hair buzzed to a fine bristle that hadn’t yet begun to recede or gray. One hand gripped the strap of a duffel that was his only luggage. The other stuck out toward Carl.
“Blackjack Ramsey. When I heard of your death, I knew better than to mourn.”
Not content to merely shake his former squadmate’s hand, Carl drew him into a brief hug. “You can save a lot of whiskey not toasting my death until you see a body. Good to see you, Samurai.”
If any of the newcomers were tempted to ask about Toshiro’s call sign, the sword sheathed at his hip answered on his behalf. By everything Carl had learned, it was a thousand years old, held together by pre
servative magic and passed down through the generations straight from the original wielder. Toshiro knew how to use it, too, and wasn’t shy when the need arose. Seeing Toshiro take an arm off a drunk who drew a blaster in a bar fight had inspired Carl to purchase a sword of his own.
“Toshiro, I don’t know if you ever met Reebo St. Jardin or Yomin Dranoel. They were aboard the Odysseus when it went down. Pretty sure we all knew Jean Niang from hangar maintenance.”
Toshiro gave a curt nod. “Pleased to meet you.”
Jaxon stepped forward for a hug. “Good to see you, you crazy bastard.”
Rachel prodded the kids forward. “I know you haven’t seen them since they’ve been old enough to talk, but these are Jax Jr. and Lisa.”
Adjusting his grip on the duffel, Toshiro turned to Carl. “Where should I stow my gear?”
“We’re a little short on space right now,” Carl explained. “You’ll be hot-bunking with Reebo until we meet up with Hatchet. You’ll be taking a spot on his ship.”
Toshiro raised an eyebrow.
“Hey, we’re not idiots. Hatchet’s a loose cannon. You’re going to be our cannon tightener.”
Toshiro snorted and something resembling a smile twitched the corners of his lips. “Understood. Some things never change. Right, sir?”
# # #
The Hatchet Job blazed through the astral. Running at a depth of just 4 standard units, the conventional thrusters were working overdrive to get them to the meet-up on time. Watching their inchworm progress on the sector map wasn’t helping.
From the copilot’s seat, July Monroe smirked. “This is the first time I’ve seen you uptight. It’s not like Ramsey’s one for punctuality.”
“Ain’t just Ramsey,” Hiroshi Samuelson replied. “We’re putting the squadron back together—some of it, at least. Ramsey’s the least of my problems.”
“But isn’t he—?”
“No! He’s not. Listen, July. Ramsey may have set himself up as head of a new syndicate, but he’s walking a tightrope and doesn’t even know it. He had a crew of six and was barely in charge of them. Now he’s claiming he’s got a hundred and mostly ex-navy. Rest of the half-devils think I’m a liability, but Ramsey’s going to need me if he wants to keep this little empire of his from falling apart.”
Stretching, July eased herself to her feet and draped her arms around Hiroshi. “Aren’t you being a little melodramatic? Hmm?”
Hiroshi untangled himself. “Listen to me. If that syndicate of Ramsey’s works out, we can be at the peak of a very tall food pyramid. But this only works if those floor-moppers and datapad commandos of his are afraid of me. Ramsey’ll let everyone walk all over him. That worked with the half-devils because he looked out for us with the brass. Now? Dust me if I know what these jungle refugees expect out of him.”
July smirked at him and tossed her purple hair. “So you’re going to be the voice of reason and stability.”
Hiroshi snorted. “You can blow that out the waste port. Ramsey needs a bayonet squad.”
“Huh?”
“Back about a thousand years ago, you had armies packed together like city-tram passengers, shooting each other with lead bullets. Only an idiot would stand there to get shot, but the blasters in those days were as accurate as a drunken piss. The guys behind them had blades on their blaster rifles called bayonets. The enemy soldiers might shoot them if they stayed and fought. The guys behind them would skewer them for sure though if they didn’t.”
July patted him on the shoulder. “This isn’t ancient Earth, and these aren’t savages with lead-thrower rifles.”
Hiroshi caught her by the wrist. “For this business to work, Ramsey needs three things. He needs people who fear and respect him—those are our marks. He needs people who are completely loyal—that’s his squad mates and his starship crew. And most of all, he needs all his underlings, vassals, and agents to fear, respect, and be loyal. Right now, I don’t think he’s got enough in that middle group to keep the other two in line.”
“So you’re going to be the voice of the devil, reminding Ramsey’s lackeys that it’s better to be with him than against him.”
With a smile fit for a shark, Hiroshi nodded. “Now you’re getting it. And if we don’t make our meet-up on time, we’re going to lose face and make it all that much harder to get those pad-slappers to fall into line.”
# # #
Esper felt the change of gravity as she passed from the Mobius to the Hatchet Job. The docked ships were now well below the astral shipping lanes, out of sight for all but the most wayward of covert travelers. It had been six months since Hatchet and July had left them after the Silde Slims heist. It felt like 200 years. Esper could remember what they looked like, but the sounds of their voices, their mannerisms, and their presence all escaped her ability to recollect.
Just before she exited the docking tube on the far side, a hand rested on Esper’s shoulder. She had known Amy was behind her but hadn’t realized how closely she’d been following. She chided herself for inattention when she jerked in surprise.
“Sorry,” Amy whispered. “I just wanted to warn you. Hatchet and his crew are… rough. I don’t know how much Carl told you about them, but the Hatchet Job is a pirate ship. Not a ship that could commit piracy, but one that does. A lot.”
With her thin frame, nest of braids, and baleful, earnest eyes, Amy looked like a sad mop. Esper couldn’t help but smirk. “You mean unlike all of Carl’s other, saintly friends? So long as he’s working with us, I’ll keep Hiroshi on his best behavior.” It felt strange to say, but it was the sort of assurance Mort always gave. The mere presence of a wizard often kept blasters in their holsters. She dearly hoped that would be enough.
As Esper ducked though the airlock door to the Hatchet Job, Amy muttered something behind her. It wasn’t English—probably wasn’t meant to be heard at all. Her earring translated it as “foolish bed-wetter,” which probably had some colloquial meaning that had been lost in translation. Esper pretended not to have heard.
There was a briefing room aboard Hiroshi’s ship. Unlike the Mobius, which began life as a diplomatic shuttle, the Hatchet Job was a military design used by ARGO contractors though not by Earth Navy itself. She and Amy were the last two to arrive.
The passengers and crew from the Mobius were there, as well as Hiroshi and July. A discussion was already underway, which meant she’d missed the introductions of the reptilian sitharn, who may or may not have been the same one who raced against Carl in the Silde Slims contest, as well as two humans. One was an older woman wearing an active-scan monogoggle. The other was a man in grease-stained coveralls with a blaster belted at each hip.
“If we’re going to make a dent in contested space, we need to go after the money,” Hiroshi said, pacing in front of the blank flat-vid screen. “Knuckle-rapping the low-rent smugglers will just dry up the terras flowing around the sector.”
Carl spread his hands. “I’ve done the digging. There’s no operation out here worth ousting. Colonies and outposts have their own little cliques and petty governments, but that’s not the kind of glamor work that gets people into this business.”
Hiroshi stabbed a finger in Carl’s direction that could have bruised a rib if half a room hadn’t separated the two men. “That’s your problem. You’re thinking about the game, not the business. Way more money comes out of this little backwater than in. Someone on the outside’s getting rich off this region of space, and we’ve gotta punch them in the nose if we wanna divert that cash flow our way.”
“So…” Carl said, waving tight circles with one hand. “We piss off the biggest exporters and put ourselves on their radar?”
Hiroshi wiped a hand over his face. “Lemme put this in lingo you grok. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger. And you don’t mess around with…” he pointed a finger at Carl.
“Jim,” Carl answered, finishing the lyric.
“Wrong!” Hiroshi snapped. “Remember how that song ends? Some new tough guy comes along and takes the top of the hill. You don’t mess around with Blackjack Ramsey. We rough up the alpha players in this tumbleweed sector, and it’s us who gotta deal with. Got it?”
Amy leaned over to Esper and whispered, “He made me watch Superman with him on flatvid. It’s all about an alien sun-wizard who looks human and protects Earth from… well, everything. Stupidest shit ever, but Carl likes it.”
Niang spoke up. “So who wears the big britches in this neck of the woods?”
A wolf’s grin spread on Hiroshi’s face. “Every big player who wants in on the gold rush. There’s some weird shit out here on these semi-inhabited worlds. The megacorps are scouring them for bio-weapons, medical applications, test sites, and test subjects. You name it. If places like Zammos, Nebula Consortium, Harmony Bay, and The Buffett Group want to keep it off-radar from ARGO regulation, they’re doing it out here.”
Jaxon raised a finger and cleared his throat. “Point of order here, Hatchet. Who’s to say we can take on any of those outfits, let alone hold ‘em all off?”
July stepped in and answered in Hiroshi’s place. “We don’t have to take them on. They don’t have facilities out here. They don’t send cruisers and science ships and megafreighters. They operate small-scale so they don’t attract too much attention. ARGO is treaty-bound to keep out of the contested sectors, and that includes policing the corporations. For once, we’ve got the law on our side.”
Esper watched the room as July spoke. If there was a fuse to this dynamite of an endeavor, she was it. Hiroshi watched Carl—understandable since he and July had a brief fling during the Silde Slims contest. Carl stared off into space, never one to reveal his thoughts with an audience. Amy watched July with eyes that hardened to steel. Apparently she’d watched the Silde Slims broadcasts—which made no secret of Carl and July’s brief relationship—or someone had briefed her. Toshiro was keeping an eye on… Amy? That was one to monitor—not that it was any of Esper’s business. Jaxon focused his attention on July, but in no way that seemed untoward, and kept an absent hold of Lisa, seated on his knee. Reebo and Niang both had a familiar leer aimed July’s way. Nice as it was not to be the object of that look, she didn’t envy July for it. For her part, Yomin was—
